Nice Thoughts
by KayLeFay
Summary: Niceness is kindness and niceness is goodness. Alternately, niceness is characterized by great skill and precision, and employs the subtlest of distinctions. Warning for consensual violence.
1. Chapter 1

Martin's fingers skim past the edge of the pink casing to touch the glass surface. He can't quite look at the other man. "I already have one."

"Not like that," Jim says, stretching in the driver's seat, his eyes half-closed.

They're parked on the edge of the airfield, and Jim's leaning, cat-like, into a patch of sun in the window. "My old one works fine, Jim," Martin says, trying to hold back a full complaint. Really, it was nice of him, if a bit unprecedented and—well, completely unnecessary.

Jim shifts against the brake and the small car rolls forward. Alarmed, Martin reaches for the emergency brake, but Jim—with an expression of appropriate concern—pushes down with his foot and the movement stops. Martin breathes, settling back into his seat, and says, "it was a nice thought. Thank you."

Jim smiles, and it splinters his mouth.

"It's also pink."

"Nice thoughts can be pink," says Jim.

"And your number's already in it."

"Selfish pink nice thought," Jim replies, and he has Martin by the lapels of his Captain's blazer and Martin stops complaining.

Whether morning, afternoon, or evening, the walls of Jim's flat are the same shade of nothing.

The pizza Jim orders is draped with a flattened brick of coagulating cheese and Martin's absorbed in testing the many in-flight functions of Jim's simulator program. "You look nice when you blush," Jim says, his eyes trying to pierce the already-expanding capillaries under the skin of Martin's cheeks.

Martin takes a minute to deal with the effects of a frustratingly persistent virtual crosswind before he's leveled out the plane again and can sneak a glance at the other man. "You don't," he says.

Jim's mouth slides into a smirk and Martin can feel his throat muscles spring into a series of familiar gymnastics. "When you blush. Er. Because you don't. Blush, that is. You do. Er. Look nice."

Something sharp slides over the surface of Jim's eyes. "Nice."

Martin frowns and goes over the post-takeoff checks again. "Yeah, you know. Good."

Jim smiles and closes his eyes. "Not like you."


	2. Chapter 2

Martin's vertebrae meet the unyielding linoleum floor with an arc of pain that vibrates up through his ribcage and Jim nips at his neck, biting down as if to sever the humble cord of vein he finds rising against the skin.

There's an empty box to Martin's left and wax paper weighted down by the crust of the last piece of pizza Martin had managed to eat before Jim decided that there were better ways to spend their time. Martin watches as the edges of crust disappear into the blindspot of his peripherals—the _punctum caecum_, his mind supplies—and they pop back into consciousness as Jim slides flush against him, fabric of their shirts catching down to the very threads. Martin knows he should keep his eyes open and Jim's managed to divest them of the remains of their clothing without truly shifting their positions; there's a sensation of bone cutting into his thigh and there are already bite marks. The thought shudders through him and into the floor and he's never been more ready in his life.

He tastes the sting of salt; he's chewed into the inside of his mouth and Jim's preparing himself, his eyelids jammed shut and crinkled against a line of soft dark lashes as he rocks onto those delicate fingers. Martin sheathes himself in latex seconds before Jim sinks slowly onto him, his eyes fluttering open, sharp enough to pin Martin's to the back of his skull. Martin gasps and arches up, his thoracic vertebrae shifting painfully against the floor and Jim's mesmerized by the push-pull of tissues and tendons in the other man's body. He rocks downward to match, drawing a moan from the back of Martin's throat, and presses his index finger to his own lips before wrenching it into Martin's mouth, hissing as it's sucked in to the hilt.

Martin's perspective shifts around him as his consciousness expands to the size of the universe before folding into itself like a black hole and settling firmly in the space between their skins. Jim grips Martin's thigh with his other hand and holds him in place as he settles on a grueling rhythm, throwing his head back as his muscles clench around Martin, who groans and bites down on Jim's knuckle.

Growling, Jim removes his finger from that mouth—a slight whimper from Martin—and hits Martin full across the face.

Martin's skin is wide and white and stinging red, his lips swollen and open. His eyes, full pupils, unmoving.

Jim tilts his head.

Martin's lips brush against each other in near silence, and Jim brushes a stray curl from the man's forehead and leans down to listen.

Martin closes his eyes and smiles. It's beatific. "Again."

The second hit is stronger than the first, and the force of it slams Martin's cheek against the ground. "Again."

Jim looks at the man splayed below him and catches his lips in a kiss that holds sweetness at its base, and then he wraps soft fingers around Martin's neck and squeezes.

Martin's eyes flash in surprise and he looks so alive, twitching and fading under his grasp, fucking himself into Jim and he shudders apart in a silent scream that pulses deep into Jim's body.

Jim releases his grip and follows, spilling onto a coughing, gasping Martin.

They lie on the too-hard floor and it's better than a lullaby.


End file.
